


The Christmas Truce

by what_does_it_strittmatter



Category: Actor RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War I, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-16
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-01 11:29:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2771372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/what_does_it_strittmatter/pseuds/what_does_it_strittmatter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas 1914: Word War I seems interrupted by an unexpected miracle when soldiers of the German and British side put their weapons down to celebrate together. In the middle of this miracle however, something even more unlikely happens-  two young soldiers, the Brit Will (Sebastian Stan) and the German soldier Franz (Daniel Brühl) fall in love with each other. But the star-crossed lovers have their newfound affections put to the test when they find themselves facing each other in battle on the following day. As opponents in a position to kill each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay first things first:  
> \- if you want to know more about this fic, where it came from, some behind the scenes stuff, go to christmas-truce.tumblr.com (you can also read the chapters on tumblr)  
> \- this fic is beta'd by the gorgeous bluepeony  
> \- hover over the lines / name of the poet for any translations  
> \- I'll update every 4th day starting from now, the 16th  
> Disclaimer: Yes, this is real people fiction. No, we do not own Daniel Brühl and Sebastian Stan. Furthermore, our intent is neither to taint nor romantize the historical events during First World War.  
> Alright (:

 

“Franz? Franz! Mach auf!”

 

The eager knocking ceased when the lanky, yawning figure of Franz opened the door to see what all the fuss was about. It must be quite past 11pm by now, he thought. Why would mother knock on my door at 11pm? Unless...

 

“The editors have sent for you. You have to go.” Judging from the pained look on her face, there wasn’t any good news - but good news was scarce these days anyway.

 

Franz grabbed his jacket, shut the door behind him and rushed past his mother as she clutched her cross pendant. Cycling towards town, he mused over the headlines awaiting him. He certainly hadn’t imagined this kind of work when he applied for a job at the local newspaper last summer. But what had he imagined? Book reviews? He had to translate the best-selling British newspapers so the journalists could use the Brits’ arguments as propaganda, picking out the best lines and bending the truth wherever possible.

 

Franz took a deep breath, inhaling the salty breeze from the sea.  When he finally arrived in the crowded room, his superior simply threw a telegram in his direction. It was the 4th of August, and Great Britain had just declared war on Germany.

 

\--------

  
A good 900km away, a shabby young man bumped his head on his cupboard for the third time that night. Will had already woken twice from nightmares, sticky with sweat in his little den, but now someone was screaming out in the street. He hauled himself over to the window and almost tripped when he heard the words everyone had been expecting. They were at war.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I say every 4th day? Yeah well, the first chapter was only a short introduction, so here's the second one.  
> Thanks again to my lovely beta Katy (bluepeony on ao3, russeltovey on tumblr) :3  
> Also, as usual, the link to our tumblr: christmas-truce.tumblr.com  
> Disclaimer: Neither do we own the actors nor do we want to romantise or taint the historical events during World War One.

_Kein Sommer war wie jener groß und klar._

_Wir haben ihn mit dummer Hand verschwendet._

_Nun aber, da das Kinderspiel beendet,_

_Begreifen wir, daß es der letzte war._

_Gleich als du fort warst, fing es an zu regnen._

_-Ich wußte, daß ein Ende so beginnt._

_Weil wir nie wieder denen begegnen,_

_Die für uns ausersehen sind._

-Mascha Kaléko  
  


\----------

The music was too loud, the streets too crowded, and the whole scene was too…  pompous . Sadly, it was the reality Franz was a part of as one of those in the spotlight, one of those who would be sent to war. 

The music died away when the speaker took to the podium. Franz scanned the man for any signs of unease, but there seemed to be none. This man was a veteran who had fought against the French more than forty years ago; two of his comrades were sitting to the right of the podium. All three of them had pulled on their uniforms and had medals carefully arranged on their chests. 

However, this demonstration of past power could not disguise their current age. The speaker had a thin voice, a mere shadow from the past; an echo of his younger self’s commanding bark. Words like “father land”, “pride”, “defending” all reached the listening crowd. A short plea about the “honour” of serving the emperor, an honour he and his comrades did not possess. Franz wanted neither the honour nor the obligation to give speeches like this in the future. 

When the speaker was finally finished the band began to play again, and the ceremony went on as the future soldiers marched down the main road. Franz tried not to look too uncomfortable as he marched. He spotted teachers in the crowd accompanying them, waving furiously at their former students. He saw a group of former boys behave as though they were being applauded for their own hard work when, Franz thought bitterly, it was the work of generations from centuries ago, and politicians from decades ago. 

They marched round the corner and stopped. Slowly, they looked back to find their families. There she was, his little sister, in the middle of a group of well-dressed blonde girls.

“Franz!” Paula shouted, tugging on his sleeve. “Franz, come on, I want to show you something.”

They passed through deserted streets to the edge of the village. There, crouched behind a hedge, was Paula’s friend Ida, looking even paler than usual. She immediately fell into Paula’s arms.

“We wanted to give you something,” said Paula, patting Ida’s head. Ida turned and unclenched her fist, while Paula placed two hands on her shoulders. Ida held out her palm, and in it lay a wooden cross.

“It’s lime tree,” came Ida’s soft voice. “I made it myself. You can see a leaf in the middle... no, there, I carved it in there. Turn it around. Please.”

On the back there was a cylindrical indentation across the longer part of the cross. Paula reached up from behind Ida.

“Here,” she said. “I found a pencil that fits in there just perfectly. You only have to tie a rubber band around it and you’ll always have something to write with.”

“And to believe in,” Ida added.

\---

It wasn’t really too bad. Everything had been going better from the moment he’d found out where to sign up the next morning. They seemed to have scraped together a group of volunteers rather quickly; when he stepped onto the train that would bring them to the countryside he’d only just managed to find a seat.

It all looked rather  _improvised_ to him. There were, of course, no big training grounds so they had to stay in a school. On the first night he’d stared up at the alphabet painted on the wall until, finally, he found sleep. 

“Will? You sleepin’ or you gonna ‘ave that toast?” his neighbour asked. Paul, a chubby twenty-something who’d been stuck with him since the train ride, had also been the first of a small bunch of guys he could almost call friends.

“You do know that  eating  more won’t bring you more  muscles , don’t you?” a man from the opposite side of the table chuckled.

“Give it a rest, Alex. He just wants to worship some good old English toast while he still can,” Will joked. The blond opposite snorted and mumbled something about French cuisine. Paul had fallen silent again.

Will was surprised by how much people liked him here. He wouldn’t have thought that being a bit more rough, sarcastic and dark-humoured than perhaps appropriate for his age would make him popular. But here he had, for once, found a group to talk and laugh easily with.

_Just a pity this is a soldier’s training camp_ , Will thought.

Their practice was fine; he’d grown fairly comfortable when it came to handling the guns. But that was hardly a surprise - he’d been an apprentice mechanic for about a year, and if he looked at the gun this way, it was just another form of mechanics (and a bit more pyrotechnics, perhaps).

There were people worse off than him, though. Paul, for instance. This evening they were sitting side by side again, Alex beside them, chatting with a slim pal called Thomas. It was already dark.

“What d’you think, is the post gonna work? I mean, when we’re there?”

Will gave him a look. “Why? Want some biscuits from home?”

“N-no, ‘course not! I was just… wondering if we’d ever hear from ‘em. Or get to write. Y’know.”

Will shrugged. They were trainees, of course they had no idea about how fast bureaucracy could organise not only the troops but everything around the troops.

Alex’s head jerked forward. “What? You wanna tell me you know nothin’ about the post?”

Will frowned and raised an eyebrow.

“We thought you had a girl back home,” Paul explained. “We thought you knew.”

Will tried to smile, but the expression must have turned out sad, judging from the look of the others. He shook his head and sat back again, closing his eyes.

Someone whispered, “But if  he  don’t ‘ave a girl, who..?”

Paul, of course. Paul never knew how to whisper without being heard.

“Nah, I bet he has. Bet she’s a real beauty. Tall with long, dark hair. Well-stacked,” Alex replied.

“You bet?”

“I certainly do, mate.”

“Well,” said Will, opening his eyes, “ _I_ bet that you both got no ‘girl back home’, and it’s really no surprise  _at all_ when you talk like that.”

He grinned at their expressions. Thomas snorted and for his trouble received a blow from Alex’s elbow to his ribcage. Will was glad they didn’t see him wipe the sweat from his palms.

\-------------

_Knock-knock._

“Wer da?” 

“Feldwebel Schmitt, Herr Marschall. Mit Neuigkeiten.” 

The colonel leaned back in his armchair. “Do come in.”

The sergeant slipped through the door and nodded briefly. “Colonel.”

“Have a seat. So, how have you been doing, Schmitt?”

“Sir, I wanted to talk to you about the mission you specifically gave me. May I talk freely?”

The colonel stood up - as did his subordinate - and crossed the room to lock the door; then he approached the window and closed it, pulling the curtains across. The room darkened, and the noise of the camp immediately ceased. The colonel sat down again, hands folded over his stomach.

“You may speak now, sergeant.”

“Sir, I told as you commanded. Soldier Schubert has been watched and his possessions 

searched. We even had the chance to survey his father.”

“Perfect. What are the results?”

“Negative, sir.”

The colonel eyed him suspiciously. “Elaborate.”

“He has none of the characteristics we looked for, or that we… expected him to have.” The sergeant cleared his throat. “He does not ask many questions when his companions tell stories, he barely speaks unless addressed directly. His group of companions is not that big. Sir, in my honest opinion, he’s a lone wolf. He spends his free time daydreaming, as it might seem, writing letters and reading novels. We have found both German and English editions, nothing remarkable, mostly classics. There is nothing suspicious about his other possessions.” The sergeant made a vague gesture. “He simply does not look for information of any kind, so we concluded...”

“...That he’s no spy. Yes.” The room fell silent again as the colonel rearranged some pens on his wooden desk. “Would you outline his background again, Schmitt?”

“Of course, sir.” The sergeant cleared his throat. “His father graduated from Oxford University, England, then settled down in a village near Lübeck as a teacher at the local grammar school. Neither he nor his wife are titled. There are no reports on Schubert’s younger sister, to whom he writes letters. After Schubert finished school, he offered his language skills to a newspaper. All our sources have concluded that there is nothing remarkable about him.”

“Except for his interest in English. Or his father’s, for instance.”

“Sir.”

The sergeant shifted his weight from one foot to the other as he awaited further commands. 

“Schmitt, tell me - what makes a good spy?”

“Sir?”

“A good spy. What would be his qualities? You must have made your mind up on that, so tell me.”

“I... well, for instance, a good cover, I think. Motivation to keep it up for as long as possible. Maintaining contact with one’s supervisor, having determination in one’s mission.”

The colonel raised an eyebrow. Sergeant Schmitt’s uniform began to feel uncomfortably hot.

“I’ll let you go with that one, Schmitt. Relax. If you have concluded this soldier is not a spy, then I trust you. You know that.”

“...Thank you, sir.”

“But on the other hand, I can’t say I’m pleased with what you’ve told me. This means we cannot make him our own spy, given that he lacks the qualities of a good one. It’s a pity. But I’ve gathered from how this war has been going that we wouldn’t have had the chance to smuggle spies into anyone’s camp. It’s not as though…” He sighed. “He’ll receive training, but  only  basic. We’ll see if that boy’s brain is smart enough to keep him alive when he clearly has a talent for the foe’s language.” Snickering, he added: “Has he any talent in music, though?”

“Not so far as we’re aware, sir.”

“Pity, with a name like that.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obligatory disclaimer: We own neither Daniel Brühl nor Sebastian Stan (and it's unlikely to get them as Christmas presents either) nor do we want to taint or romantise historical events.  
> Also please bear in mind that those two are soldiers in a war, so that was your warning.  
> Beta'd by the wonderful bluepeony / russeltovey on tumblr.
> 
> Our tumblr: http://christmas-truce.tumblr.com

_“und seine furchtbare Klage: WARUM? wird ungehört in der Steppe verrinnen, durch die geborstenen Ruinen wehen, versickern im Schutt der Kirchen, gegen Hochbunker klatschen, in Blutlachen fallen, ungehört, antwortlos, letzter Tierschrei des letzten Tieres Mensch -”_

-Wolfgang Borchert,  Dann gibt es nur eins (1947)

  
\-------

 

Detonations in the dark. In the beginning, fear wiped out every other emotion; now there is only numbness. You are stumbling through dirt. No sunlight. Is it night time? Is that dust or fog? No one can tell any more.

 

Detonations. Someone shouting. Are those words? Commands? Screaming. A rifle. Numbness.

 

Detonations. People push you aside; rush by you. What are they running from? Fear.

You feel cold metal. Feet pounding. Why are you running again? What was the command?

 

Pain. Fear. Numbness.

 

Detonations.

 

\---

 

“Hey. Hey, it’s okay now. It’s okay. We’re safe. Paul? Paul! Look at me!”

 

Will shook him by the shoulders, but Paul’s eyes weren’t focusing. _Oh God, no._

 

“Paul, it’s the train. We aren’t at the front anymore.”

 

Paul looked at him. “The train?”

 

“Yes, the train. Remember? Training camp again. Off the front. They told us yesterday.”

 

Paul’s body sagged back against the wall. Finally. Will could have imagined better ways of waking up than being strangled and grabbed by his friend.

 

“‘m sorry”, Paul panted.

 

“No need to be. We’re all in the same... train.”

 

“Yes, and all we wanted was just a _tiny_ _wink_ of sleep. Dammit, Paul.” Alex again.

 

Will closed his eyes. Everyone was reacting differently after all. No one to blame. Sleep.

 

About an hour later, he woke again. The front line had to be far behind them now, but everything looked to be not far from the trenches, possibly due to the hundreds of people marching across the ground.

 

They’d been told that this training camp was to ensure the high quality of their fighting technique, thus lessening the number of dead. Their instructors were good, though. At least they got some basic schooling in group fighting, handling newly-made weapons and more safety instructions.

 

“It doesn’t matter any more,” Alex said at the end of the first day. “I mean, what are our options? Die sooner or later, that’s it. But die anyway. This morning I saw some blokes ogling me like I was an exhibit, or some zoo animal. They think they’ll look like me one day, but _I’m_ still alive!”

 

Thomas shot him a warning look. Will openly glared at him. Paul only ate faster.

 

“Why aren’t you sayin’ _anything_?” Alex’s fist hit the table.

 

“Why should we say anything against you, eh? Don’t you think we feel kind of the same?” Will asked provocatively. Paul’s hands were shaking.

 

“The same? The bloody _same_? No, _dear friend_ , because unlike you lot I don’t play nanny for someone who doesn’t stand a chance. I got my own head to look after.”

 

Will noticed that Thomas had closed his eyes, and knew Alex had crossed a line. He stood and quickly crossed the space between them, catching Alex halfway as he tried to get up too. Will pushed him against the wall. Words rushed out of him.

 

“Listen to me, my _dear_ friend. This guy over here’s having just as hard a time as you, so you’d better shut your filthy mouth. You think you’re gonna survive on your own? What kind of guy are you, eh? Makes you feel better bullying someone, eh? But I heard you crying too, fuckin’ weeping like a bairn in the middle of the night. So don’t play games.” He released him, still panting. “Not with me, not with anyone in this group.”

 

Alex rushed past him, heading outside. Thomas nodded at Will and followed him seconds later.

 

\-----

 

_Liebe Paula,_

_ich hoffe, es geht dir gut, und, wie immer, dass dich dieser Brief auch erreicht. Mir geht es auch gut. Die anderen sind alle sehr nett zu mir. Ich hoffe, Mama und Papa sind auch wohl auf. Grüße sie von mir. Und grüß Ida._

_Entschuldige die kurze Nachricht, mir geht langsam das Pap-_

 

“Hey, was schreibst’n da schon wieder?” 

 

Franz stopped writing, looking up at the faces of what appeared to be a gang. He couldn’t count how many of those had interfered with him before.

 

“Is that the only thing you can do with your hands, he?” a guy called from the back.

 

Franz rolled his eyes. _Not again, please not again._

 

“What’s up this time? Aren’t you supposed to be bothering the enemy?” Franz stood up and looked them in the eye. He didn’t know how some soldiers could keep up both the fight along with other casualities. He was so tired of it all.

 

“We just… thought we’d pay you a visit. Stopping by. You good?”

 

Franz absentmindedly fished the half-finished letter and his pen from the table. His sister would have to wait.

 

The smallest, most crooked of them shot him a dirty look. “Looks like you did well at the training camp. Spent your fire-free nights getting to know the other guys, hm?”

 

“Let me just… ask,” his mate said again. “What exactly did you do to be granted time behind the trenches? You aren’t the best fighter, you aren’t the richest guy, you sure as hell aren’t worth being kept safe while we’re -”

 

“Gentlemen, is there a problem?”

Finally. A tall figure entered the tent, hands clasped neatly behind his back. Greeting Franz with a small nod, sergeant Petersen appeared relaxed, conscious of his rank and once more proving himself to be in a state completely opposite to that which Franz himself was accustomed to these days.

 

“I am sure your problem has resolved itself by now. If I might speak to Mr Schubert alone..?” he asked dryly.

 

The four muttered their apologies and left. Franz allowed himself to breathe again. Petersen turned to him and smirked.

 

“I know I’ve already asked you a dozen times, but how exactly do you deal with them when I’m not around? Nevermind, I’ll never find out. I’m here because of work, by the way.” He handed Franz a muddied envelope.

 

“So they got the information? Are these the letters in question?” Franz began opening the envelope.

 

“Well… I’m not allowed to say that much, as you know… you aren’t allowed to know that much, as you also know, but...” He lowered his voice, leaning in. “Frankly, this mission is a complete failure. Whose idea was it in the first place to send a spy to the other side of the trench and then just … hope they were going to find a way to report somehow?But as it is, they have to go on without us, and as long as we get some lovely letters, I suppose… well, you know how it is.”

 

Yes, Franz knew. He’d had to translate the messages for weeks now, only the training camp giving any form of respite.

 

Petersen had already stepped away from him. “I don’t want to disturb you. Report tomorrow, my tent. Good evening, Franz.” And he was gone again.

 

Franz closed his eyes and thought of the evening he would have. Of course, it was unlikely for him to die in battle, like some soldiers might tonight. His torture was of a different nature; translating letters from Englishmen that had never reached their destination. Petersen was right, as usual: this mission wasn’t going anywhere because what sane soldier would include secret plans or anything even remotely similar in their letters?

 

They wrote about life on the front, the constant fear, the struggle to stay alive even through the soaked, hopeless mess of war. They disguised it in words of encouragement, in sentiment, love for their darlings who had been left at home. “I’ll be back for Christmas!” they’d promise. “Remember when I had that job down the mine and we thought I wasn’t going to see daylight anymore & then I came home on Christmas Eve? You and I met at the front door, not minding the cold. That’s what I think of on cold nights now.”

 

Sometimes it was too much. Sometimes Franz asked himself if his superiors knew the pain it caused him to read through the letters and translate every word. Every hope, every dream that would not come true.

 

The two sides of the trenches weren’t so different, really.

 

\------

 

It had rained for four days straight now. The water found its way into everything, especially right in the trench; from there, it got into their shoes, their clothes, their tents. Everywhere.

 

Will angrily wrung out his only warm pair of socks again. Paul, beside him, muttered something of what he’d give for a ciggie, if only there were one tiny piece of dry matchstick to find.

 

After their training camp, the group had tried to stick together through thick and thin. But one day, at the tail-end of November, Thomas fell in an attack.

 

Paul began to clutch even more tightly to Will because of Will’s strong fighting capabilities. If only the same could be said for Alex. Will didn’t know what was worse; being followed by someone or being completely abandoned by someone.

 

If he thought about it, the situations weren’t comparable. Alex had fallen into a deep lethargy by now. He was reduced to a simple machine, one that didn’t even seem to need sleep. Or company.

 

Will side-eyed Paul, hearing him still babbling on about the awful situation and the rain and God being in favour of the Germans. No one really had any energy left at all. The whole camp was in a state where they’d happily retire and live out in the countryside in some warm, dry cottage, back at home.

 

Maybe it would have been worse for me, Will thought, had I a beloved back home. The bitter taste accompanying such thoughts didn’t stay away this time either.

 

\---

 

Franz had thought they were pulling his leg when someone had sent for him to “carry the trees”. He could not carry trees. He didn’t partake in many fights, and what would they be doing with trees anyway?

 

But then he saw what might have been the product of some very misguided planning. The morale of the troops at the very front couldn’t be restored with Christmas trees and candles! Nothing, absolutely nothing could gloss over the fact that they would probably not have normal Christmases again for a very long time.

 

He sighed and hauled up one of the trees, slouching off to the trench.

  


\----

 

“Sleep, Paul. Alright?” Will closed his eyes again and let his head drop back against the frozen mud.

 

“How many more days, Will?”

 

“Paul.” He looked him in the eye now. “Paul, you jus’ asked me that a coupla minutes ago. Please. Rest.”

 

“But I got to know when to send the card. On time. You understand that, Will, don’t yeh?”

 

The Christmas cards from the king had arrived. Last week, it should have been. Since then, Paul had been hankering to write back.

 

Many wanted to.

 

\---

 

One day, around sunset, a soldier entered.

 

“Attention, everyone! We are at truce until further commands are issued. Prepare to take the wounded from the fields in the morning. Good evening.”

 

And then he was gone. Just like that.

 

Will looked around, completely stunned. A truce? Then there was hope! News of this sort wasn’t normally available to soldiers this far at the front. Only a few others seemed to have fully comprehended the news. Will tried his best to get the message across.

 

“Alex! Oi, Alex! You hear that, lad, there’s no more fighting! We’ll be bringin’ the wounded home,” he said to his friend, nudging his shoulder.

 

“I know. I heard that.” Alex’s voice was thin. He didn’t speak much these days. “Thomas is already dead, Will. There’s no cure for that.”

 

He looked Will in the eye. They had had this conversation a dozen times already. Both of them felt the paralysing guilt strike them again, a guilt which came late for many of them.

 

\------

 

There were so many whose eyes had to be closed.

 

Their arms ached as they carried the lifeless bodies. Their backs ached as they dug in the dirt. It would not do well to talk about the state of their hearts.

 

There were so many who had to close the eyes.

 

\-----

 

A few days later, Paul came bounding in with news. “The major wants to talk to all of us. It’s about tomorrow. Christmas Eve! Can you believe we got there, Will?” he said, stepping closer.

 

“No. No, not really. D’you think the truce might last?”

 

“We’ll find out. Come on!” said Paul, urging him towards the barn.

 

When they arrived they were presented with the idea of a few days of festivity. Tonight would be one of them, as it was what the Germans wanted. The major explained that they wouldn’t be celebrating Christmas day the way the English did. There would be dinner in a barn somewhere, a little away from the field.

 

“We want you all to share in the spirit of Christmas. We trust you will. So do neither country nor king any wrong and cherish this Holy Night. Gentlemen, you are dismissed.”

 

\-----

 

Franz now knew what it felt like to be watched by everyone, even though he was standing only in the midst of a small group. Dinner tonight, and then, well, they’d see. He sighed and straightened his back.

 

Of course, Petersen came by five minutes before they were supposed to go to the barn. He’d told Franz that, since he was one of the few people who could translate (of course, the titled people could solve their communication problem via French, but well, the common folk…) everyone wanted to have a nice evening, and communication was key to a peaceful evening. Petersen had winked, shrugged his shoulders, and admitted once again that he didn’t like to think of himself being in Franz’ position.

 

At that moment, Franz didn’t want to be himself either. His comrades made no secret of the real reason behind their delight that he would be the first sent forth: he was not a good fighter, and if they killed him it wouldn’t be -

 

Franz stopped his train of thought right there. They were at a truce, weren’t they? What could go wrong?

 

 

“Soldaten, wenn ich um Aufmerksamkeit bitten dürfte.” Their major. “Sie alle kennen den Anlass dieses Treffens, also entweihen Sie Heilig Abend nicht. Als einzige Waffe,” he smirked, “steht Ihnen Ihr Mundwerk zur Verfügung. Danke.” 

 

The majors and higher ranking people had already gathered at one end of the barn; food was in the corner beside them. Franz’s comrades pushed him forward. “Na komm schon, geh!” 

All of a sudden, he was standing in front of a line of German soldiers, ones who would not support him in an emergency.

 

There were voices from the English, some muttered curses, until someone cried, “Okay, okay!” and pushed his way through his own comrades.

 

He was as tall as Franz but clearly a good, skilled fighter. Not only that, his friends didn’t seem the sort to watch with pleasure were he to be eaten alive. The stranger looked behind himself again and whispered something to three men in the front row, too quietly for Franz to hear.

 

Franz decided to clear his throat to get the man’s attention.

 

“Ah, right, excuse me manners. I’m Will, and this lot behind me are our men. Nice ta meet you.” The stranger offered his hand.

 

Franz wanted to sink into the depths of the earth and never see daylight again. Of course the soldiers didn’t speak Queen’s English. This would be difficult.

 

“Franz. It is a pleasure to meet you. All of you, as I am speaking for all of us.”

 

He shook Will’s hand firmly. They looked at each other, each of them silently asking what had gotten the other into a situation like this.

 

Somewhere behind them, the first men began to cheer.

\-----

 

They were both standing outside an empty cabin, leaning against the wall, panting. Smiling at each other.

 

“What’re we even doing here, Franz?” Will laughed. “You can barely understand me, but you’re the only one in that whole group who can. And now you’ve run away. What they gonna do?”

 

Franz bit back a laugh; the thought was hilarious.

“So tell me, what are we going to do here out?” Franz asked.

 

“What d’you think, mate? I’m not gonna murder you, that’s for sure. We could talk, eh?”

 

“Good.”

 

Will snickered and turned to Franz, still leaning against the wall. “So how come you speak any English at all?”

 

“My father is an English teacher. He actually studied at Oxford, can you believe that?”

 

“I think I can.” He tilted his head. “But what are you doing with the language? I mean, what’s the point?”

 

“I… I’ve always enjoyed literature.”

 

“Books? Really?” Will barked out a sad laugh. “What are you even doing at the front?”

 

Franz shot him a long look.

 

“Sorry,” Will said after a moment. “Then tell me somethin’ you’ve read. A, you know, a quote, anything. Really, I don’t know owt.”

 

Franz looked out to the landscape filled with snow. They could hear their comrades somewhere.

 

_“And there she lulled me asleep_

_and there I dreamed - ah, woe betide!_

_the latest dream I ever dreamed_

_on the cold hill’s side._

_I saw pale kings and princes, too,_

_pale warriors, death-pale were they all,_

_they crie-”_

 

“ **Stop it**.” Will hadn’t meant his words to be so harsh. He just couldn’t bear it. “I want to have a happy evening.”

 

Will left his fists clenched, shaking. Franz didn’t hesitate to look the other way.

 

“It was written by John Keats. A Romantic poet.”

 

“Funny. I know some Johns, I know a Keats or two, but I never heard of him.”

 

“He died young, he was ill.”

 

Will watched him, unblinking. “Ill, eh? You like that?”

 

“... What?” Franz looked at him, completely startled.

 

Will cast his eyes over their surroundings. “‘Cos I am, too. Ill.” He took a step closer. What was the worst that could happen now anyway? “I’m ill, Franz, because I should think about blasting your head away. But you know what? I can only think about kissing you. In this bone-chilling cold. Bloody ill, I am.”

 

Franz gulped. He reached out with his hand - they were so close now - and watched as Will closed his eyes. But instead of the expected punch, Will felt only a hand resting on his cheek. Fingers curling against his neck.

 

“I do not think you are ill,” Franz whispered. He caught a brief, startled look on Will’s face when he leaned in and pressed their lips together.

  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, see you on Christmas Eve then! (:


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, hover over the lines / poet’s name for translations. Also as usual, beta’d by the wonderful russeltovey / bluepeony on ao3
> 
> Our tumblr: christmas-truce.tumblr.com
> 
> Disclaimer:
> 
> Yes, this is real people fiction. No, we do not own Daniel Brühl and Sebastian Stan. Furthermore, our intent is neither to taint nor romantize the historical events during World War One.

 

_“It was as though the surface of the glass had been the arch of the sky, enclosing a tiny world with its atmosphere complete. He had the feeling that he could get inside it, and that in fact he was inside it, along with the mahogany bed and the gateleg table and the clock and the steel engraving and the paperweight itself. The paperweight was the room he was in, and the coral was Julia's life and his own, fixed in a sort of eternity at the heart of the crystal.”_

George Orwell, 1948

 

“Come on. Come _on_ , Christ! Inside, quick!” Will hurried Franz through the creaking door to an abandoned barn. Franz peered at their surroundings. This place had stood empty for some time, and was somewhat closer to the opposite line.

 

After Will shut the door behind them the only source of light was a pale streak from the crescent moon coming through a hole in the ceiling.

 

“At least there’s no bloody snow in here… my… why’s there so much straw lying ‘round here?”  Will threw himself down on a stack of straw. Franz still hadn’t moved, except for his fingers which kept clenching into fists and unclenching again.

 

Will exhaled deeply. “Lad? Come, sit here.”

 

Franz cautiously approached him, the figure in the semi-darkness with its arms propped upon its knees. The straw crunched as Franz sat down.

 

“You don’t mind?”

 

“You sittin’ here? Why should I?”

 

“You are not… angry at me, then?” His voice was so shaky; it didn’t resemble the one which had spoken the words Will had needed. _Not ill._

 

Will shifted awkwardly and cleared his throat. It was only then that he noticed Franz still staring at him, waiting for an answer.

 

“Relax, mate. I wouldn’t stab you if you turned round. I already told you,” he said with a sad chuckle.

 

Franz exhaled deeply, burying his face in his hands. Will’s half-smile vanished from his face - he hadn’t realised how shaken the other man really was. Hesitantly, he put out his hand to caress Franz’ hair, combing through the coarse, unwashed strands and feeling Franz’ breathing begin to slow down again.

 

Franz waited until his head wasn’t spinning anymore. He felt himself leaning into the touch, and lowered his hands. Will quickly dragged his arm back. He felt like the spell had been broken again.

 

“Thank you,” said Franz. “I owe you.”

 

“Owe me what?”

 

“I…” Franz’ voice trailed off. For the first time since their _confrontation_ outside he could look Will in the eye. “Well, I will not be able to give you the type of Christmas celebration that you would have had at home. I am afraid I am not a good substitute for your family.”

 

They both chuckled, and Will exclaimed, “‘s a good thing, you’ve got no idea what my family’s like! You’re _far_ better company.”

 

“You mean your family was… is… not fond of you?”

 

Will shrugged under Franz’ questioning look. “Yeh see… I grew up in a village, really nothing special. It’s like industry just skipped that part of the map. So when I said I didn’t fancy becoming a farmer like every other bloody bugger… well, you can imagine the commotion. I mean, granted, it wasn’t _that_ much of a mess what with me not being the eldest and all that, but still.”

 

He glanced up at the ceiling.

 

“So I moved to the nearest town, into my uncle’s house, started as an apprentice mechanic. Always had a talent for that. The only problem was that now I had the freedom of not having to listen to my parents, but dear old aunt and uncle were still there.”

 

He looked back at Franz.

 

“And that’s where I left them. Parents disappointed I wasn’t like them with the job, uncle disappointed I wasn’t like his son with the girls, and I just… I wanted to get out of there, to be honest.” He clapped his hands. “All I’ve gotta say is that you’re sure as hell better company than _that_ lot.”

 

“Then thank you for the compliment,” Franz said wryly. “But I still think that you should for the celebration of love be with those who, deep down, do love you.”

 

They both fell silent again and kept their heads down.

 

“I suppose you’re much better with words, so why don’t yeh tell me something now, eh?” Will said quietly.

 

After an encouraging glance from Will, Franz started to speak.

 

“My favourite Christmas was when my sister was old enough to act but still young enough to be eager about her role in the… the Christmas story? She was part of the angel choir and she kept smiling at us during the whole story. When we went home from church she was bouncing at my mother’s hand, singing little parts every now and then.”

 

He gulped, drawing a deep breath.

 

“When I… after I finished school I didn’t know what to do with my future. I took a position at a newspaper, our local newspaper. I wanted to finally use my English skills.” He chuckled. “On the next day, my sister comes home and tells me that the children are talking about me behind her back for… lots of reasons. About my work, and my father’s work, too, not being acceptable, and that they hoped for her to find a ‘proper’ German husband and…”

 

He shook his head and paused.

 

“Her last letter said that as soon as she is old enough she wants to become a nurse. To help… healing soldiers. She gave me this…” Franz fumbled with his collar and took off Paula’s cross. “I remember she saying something about belief and… I don’t want her to see this.”

 

He made a vague gesture. Will’s eyes were fixed on the wooden cross. Franz silently wondered how long it had been since the other man had had something to believe in.

 

“I get you, I really do. My mates are good ones, it’s horrible to think of them just dying… maybe next week? Who knows? My mate’s best friend died, he turned into some bitter pessimist who’d lash out on ya if you even tried… we’re lucky we haven’t got any deep wounds yet. I heard the lazarets aren’t the best way to go. Now, take a soft lad and dress him up for all this, you take his life away. Either he dies here or his future’s not worth talkin’ about. Some people just don’t harden up.”

 

“Let’s leave.” Franz stared at him, a deep sadness and distant hope setting his gaze on fire. “Let’s get out of here incognito. If we start travelling tonight we could be far behind the trench by the end of the celebrations. We could -”

 

“Franz, let’s not -”

 

“No, no - you want to live, I want to live too. We could hide somewhere in France until this war is over. People are already acting like brothers, how long do you think the shootings will last? I do know some French, or we… best we don’t talk to anyone. We would have us, alive, and that’s enough, Will, that’s - “

 

“Franz.” Will’s voice interrupted him like a sob.

 

He tried to speak but nothing could get past the painful knot in his throat. He yanked Franz closer by his collar, one hand fisted in his jacket and the other braced around his neck. Will’s kiss was passionate and eager, everything he hoped Franz would understand, everything he couldn’t put into words.

 

Their lips found a rhythm and, eventually, the knot began to loosen, warmth spreading through Will’s chest despite their situation. Who cared about a terrible war when there was such a thing as Franz kissing him back, arms wrapped around him, holding him tight? When this man allowed him to feel what he had never dared dream of?

 

He broke the kiss to catch his breath, their foreheads still touching. Franz fumbled with his arms and then put his hands on Will’s cheeks, caressing all the skin could get a hold on. A sob escaped Will’s mouth as he pressed a kiss to one of those hands. Franz urgently hauled him into a tight embrace so that they were sitting in each other’s laps.

 

Minutes passed as their breathing returned to normal. Franz was the first to break the silence.

 

“Do you think that there is hope for people like us?”

 

Will freed himself from the grip and locked eyes with his opposite.

 

“For me, there’s you.”

 

\------------------

 

At what point do people realise that what they’re doing is shaping history? Does a fresh wind rush through one’s mind? Is there a tingle in your fingertips, a shiver down your spine? Do you say words and make decisions uncharacteristic of yourself, ones which seem like they’ve come from some other voice of destiny?

 

Hard facts go into history books; commands, letters, battles with time stamps. Statistics. Endless amounts of numbers.

 

What doesn’t make it into the books is the stiff talk at the head of a barn where the high-ranking officers are gathered.

 

The thoughts of cheerful soldiers as they play cards with people whose names they can’t even pronounce properly.

 

Two men lying side by side in the straw.

 

\--------------------

 

“Hey.”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“You really think this war’s not gonna last long, don’t you?”

 

“You can go back to that other house and then tell me that those men are going to fight tomorrow. You have already seen their faces. Nobody of them wanted this.”

 

“Hm.”

 

They fell silent again. The only sounds left were that of the straw gently crackling; their stiff, damp uniforms rustling; their breathing.

 

“You’re not gonna get your hands off my face till the end of tonight, are yeh?”

 

“If you don’t mind.”

 

“...course not.”

 

A slow kiss.

 

“Do you pray?”

 

“Sorry, what? Why?”

 

“I saw you staring at my cross. Do you pray?”

 

“Can’t remember the last time I prayed, to be honest. Kinda difficult to really mean it when you know… what you are and what you’re gonna be judged for. Was a bit surprised to see it round your neck there.”

 

“I don’t only wear it for my sister. I believe in His love and His own judgement, not that of the community. He wouldn’t hate His creation.”

 

A grave pause.

 

“...Franz?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“You’re brave. I want you to know this.”

 

A peck on cold lips.

 

“I want you to know this. Don’t let no one else tell ya otherwise.”

 

A whisper.

 

“Thank you.”

 

“Now come a bit closer, you’re gonna catch your death.”

 

Tangled limbs. Shared warmth.

 

“Will?”

 

“You’ve been thinking about tomorrow, haven’t you?”

 

“...yes. What do you think will happen?”

 

“I dunno, honestly. Incredible we’re here at all, eh? This truce’ll probably last a couple of days more. Least I hope so…”

 

“I meant like… about us. With us.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Lips touching a now-slightly warmer forehead.

 

“I’m not gonna shoot you. Never. If we ever meet in the field, you run, and I run, and … you’re gonna stay alive, you hear me? You just … you have to …”

 

“Will… it’s okay. I’m barely in the field during these days. I’m the one with translating skills, remember? They can’t afford my blown-off head.”

 

“I can’t either.”

 

“Will?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“When we will have survived this war, then we’ll meet again, yes?”

 

“Yes.”

 

A kiss.

 

“Just don’t think that far ahead for now, eh?”

 

More promises to come.

 

\---------------------------

 

Imagine a soldier, a loyal soldier, who can no longer understand the world. One day you’re calling him your worst enemy, the next you are feasting with him.

 

He’s lost too many comrades to be able to fully wrap his head around that idea.

 

Stumbling through the cold, deserted field - he is fairly certain he’s the only one outside by now.

 

He’s wrong. He realises this when he hears voices, barely there. Spying through one of the many holes in the wooden walls of the barn he passes, he sees them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, then, Merry Christmas everyone!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: As usual, hover over the lines / poet’s name for translations. Also as usual, beta’d by the lovely russeltovey on tumblr / bluepeony on ao3
> 
> It's the last chapter so thank you to all of you who read this and if you want to, leave a comment (:
> 
> Our tumblr: christmas-truce.tumblr.com
> 
> Disclaimer:  
> We do not own Daniel Brühl and Sebastian Stan. Furthermore, our intent is neither to taint nor romantize the historical events during World War One.

 

 

_Der abgerissene Strick_

_kann wieder geknotet werden_

_er hält wieder, aber_

_er ist zerrissen._

 

_Vielleicht begegnen_

_wir uns wieder,_

_aber da,_

_wo du mich verlassen hast_

_triffst du mich_

_nicht wieder._

-Bertolt Brecht

 

 

 

“Wake up! Will, They’re asking for you! Come _on_!”

 

Will followed Paul outside, adrenaline already pumping through his veins.

 

“Paul, who exactly is asking for me?”

 

“What do I know, that order came from up there. Probably the major?”

 

They stopped in front of a tent. Somebody was already there.

 

“Mornin’, Will. Hope you had a good night.”

 

Alex.

 

\---------

 

Franz had been shaking throughout the whole morning. He’d spent last night on cloud nine, and now his mind was relentlessly pitching to him every worst case scenario.

 

He was desperately clinging to the thought of himself and Will being reunited when all of this was over. They had each other’s addresses, last names; they could find each other again.

 

Just as he was, once more, trying to concentrate on yet another translation, Petersen stepped into the tent.

 

“Stand up.”

 

Something was wrong. The lean figure of his superior was stiff; he looked worn-out.

 

“ _Will_ you obey? Get up and show some _respect_.” Petersen barked.

 

Frenz drew a shaky breath, swallowing hard. He stayed completely still as Petersen slowly approached him.

 

“There you are. And now you’d better give me a good excuse …”

 

He trailed off, unable to speak further. Franz relaxed slightly.

 

“An excuse for what? What’s going on?”

 

“Someone saw you last night. You were spotted.”

 

He raised his eyebrows, trying to reduce the pace of his breathing.

 

“Of course someone saw me last night, I was the one who had to shake hands first. Everyone was there, I have no idea-”

 

“ _Don’t you play games with me_. I’m not stupid, you _sick_ bastard, you filthy… you know bloody well what I mean. You’ve been spotted with that Englishman, I _do_ hope you remember… “

 

Petersen knew that he had won the moment blank horror appeared on Franz’ face.

 

\----------

 

“Gentlemen, you are all gathered here today due to news regarding our current situation with the enemy.”

 

The group standing in front of you was large, haggard faces abundant throughout. Questioning faces. They were waiting for the voices around them to provide an explanation.

 

Some were even looking at you with envy. They didn’t know yet.

 

“You all did well last night, and cherished our Lord. No blood was spilled during the Holy Night.”

 

Someone was laughing in the crowd. _Punishment in front of all comrades_ , the major had said earlier.

 

“But we have been told that there was a case in which one of you did go too far, thus forgetting his duties, his fatherland, and his honour as a man. He -”

 

An accusatory finger in the corner of your vision. You clenched your jaw.

 

“- has absolutely no right to call himself a soldier, a son of his country or a man, for he has acted against His law -”

 

You briefly wondered what was happening on the other side of the trench at this moment.

 

“- and taken a position reserved only for women.”

 

You closed your eyes. You wished you could close your ears, too, so you wouldn’t have to listen to the surrounding crowd.

 

“We must teach the degenerate amongst us a lesson. It seems he might have forgotten what one is supposed to do to one’s enemy, don’t you think?”

 

Violent shouts from the crowd. Laughter in between.

 

Shame prickled down your spine.

 

“Our opposing side have already agreed that he and his counterpart -”

 

You involuntarily opened your eyes, fog clouding your vision.

 

“ - shall meet again to demonstrate what fighting means -”

 

_Spare him. Take me, spare him. Spar-_

 

“- and shall be the ones to fire the first shot. Then this truce shall be over.”

 

You wanted the world to stop right here, you wanted to see a future, a future with _him_ , you -

 

The major stepped from the podium, and the iron grip of two soldiers took hold of your arms, dragging you and dropping you off directly in front of the crowd. You didn’t care what they were doing to you, you didn’t care that they were ripping your clothes, that their fists and feet were hitting you; you stumbled forward, mind racing to come up with a solution and failing, again and again  and -

 

There was no way out of this; there just wasn’t.

  
  


\----------

 

“ _Aber er hatte keinen, dem er dafür die Fäuste ins Gesicht schlagen konnte._ ”

-Wolfgang Borchert, Die drei dunklen Könige

 

\--------

  
  


They were facing each other, paralysed, still unable to comprehend the situation.

 

Shivering, he eyed the other man; his supposed opponent. The enemy.

 

The major’s speech still rang in his ears, but all of those things he’d said were pure doctrine, beliefs the older generation had been raised with. Beliefs that were no longer held.

 

Franz could see a sly smile on Will’s face now, even from this distance. _I want to be with you, I want you to know… we didn’t have enough time, there could have been more, I…_

 

Their superiors were still gathered around them, as were their comrades, all of whom were staring at them. The gun seemed to weigh a tonne in Franz’ hands.

 

Last night seemed so far away now, as if it had been from a different time.

 

_“I’m not gonna shoot you. Never. If we ever meet in the field, you run, and I run, and…”_

 

Will raised his gun.

 

_Please, if there is a God, do not judge him, it is not his fault, do not judge him. He gave me hope I never thought I would feel, he is the light in the darkest place of my mind, he is not to blame, I beg you, I -_

 

Someone from the other side cheered but… Will wouldn’t, he…

 

Franz wasn’t fast enough. Of course he missed his moment to shoot back; he also missed one of the English captains raising his gun and aiming at Will.

 

Then there was nothing but mud, screaming, further bullets flying above his head. His foot began to bleed. He gulped back a sob and pressed his hands to his ears.

 

He didn’t want to hear the war anymore. He didn’t want to see the body of his - his lover sprawled on the cold ground.

 

He would not say a word to anybody about him.

  
  
  


 


End file.
